A Sliver of Sunlight
by JamesLuver
Summary: Anna's new dress affects John in unexpected ways.


**A/N:** Inspired by Anna's new dress from the series six trailer. I don't even know, to be honest.

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own _Downton Abbey_.

* * *

 _A Sliver of Sunlight_

New fashions are not a rarity at Downton, in no small part down to the very fashionable Crawley girls. Over thirteen years John has seen a lot, from a brief glimpse of Lady Sybil wearing trousers when he was on his way out of his lordship's dressing room, to Lady Mary's shortening hemline. And that isn't even beginning on Lady Rose MacClare, whose choice of dress has sometimes shocked even the lenient Lady Grantham.

There is little opportunity for a working class girl to keep up with the latest trends in the same way, and while John laments the fact that his wage will never allow him to swathe Anna in finery, he knows that she looks beautiful in simply anything. She wears Lady Mary's cast offs much better than the young woman herself did, and though Anna spends the majority of her time bundled in black, she takes his breath away every time he sees her. He can't say that he hasn't enjoyed the changing cuts of her uniform, either; he remembers a time when her housemaid's dress had buttoned at the throat, leaving absolutely nothing on show to the wandering eyes of male servants. Her most recent dresses have been cut well below the collar, leaving all of her gorgeous neck and several delectable inches of her chest open to his touch. The jut of her collarbone exposed in such a way has been the subject of many a fevered daydream in the lull of a working day.

And now it is time for the fashions to change once more.

For Christmas, Anna had received the usual cloth for a frock, and has spent every night since then working tirelessly at a new design—or at least that is what she tells Mrs. Hughes when the housekeeper enquires. In reality, a new frock has been the last thing on either of their minds after their holiday reunion. They have a lot of time to catch up on. Instead she's worked on it a little on the days where Lady Mary releases her early, or if she cannot sleep at night. John has returned home on several occasions to find her sewing in the warm lamplight, or using it as a ward against the past at two in the morning.

But now it's finished. Anna slips into bed beside him, looking very pleased with herself. John places his book onto his bedside table and raises his eyebrow.

"All done?" he asks.

"All done," she confirms. She'd murmured something about only needing to put the last touches on it an hour ago, when he'd asked if she was coming to bed. He'd left her poring over the final details with her last cup of tea cooling at her elbow to get bedded in for the night.

"And where is this masterpiece?"

"I've left it hanging in the sitting room."

"So I can't even see what's been holding your attention away from me?" he teases.

She snorts. "Hardly. I've had Mrs. Hughes pecking at me more urgently these last few days, wanting to know why I wasn't done when I was working on it diligently. I had to tell her that I've simply been too tired to think about it."

"That is partly the truth," he points out.

"Yes, well, I think the bigger truth is that you've been terribly distracting."

"Distracting? How?" John's hand slips lower as she snuggles against him, caressing the curve of her behind. She shivers.

"You know very well how, Mr. Bates," she says, perhaps a touch grumpily.

"I'm afraid I don't. You'll have to explain it all to me. In great detail."

"So you know not to do it again?"

"Oh no, Mrs. Bates," he whispers. "So I know _exactly_ what I have to do again."

He hears the breath catch in the back of her throat and takes it as he cue to kiss her. One of her hands cradles the back of his head as the other blindly begins to seek out the buttons on his shirt, and they do not speak again for a long time.

* * *

The next morning, Anna slips out of bed a whole ungodly hour before she needs to. John groans, failing to grab her waist and pull her back into the warm cocoon of sheets. He settles instead for burrowing his head into her pillow, inhaling the scent that lingers.

"What on earth are you doing?" he mumbles, forcing his eyes open—he might not wish to rise just yet, but the sight of his lovely wife padding around the room completely in the nude is simply too tempting to resist.

"I'm getting ready for work," she tells him.

"But at this time? Normally I have to almost drag you out of bed."

"I'm too excited to sleep."

"We don't have to sleep. Come back here. And maybe I can do something about that excitement of yours."

"Behave yourself," she scolds, though she smirks when she glances at him.

John pouts, rolling onto his back. "I should be offended that you find the idea of going to work more enjoyable than spending a little more time in bed with me."

"Don't be silly. Besides, I know what you've been like recently. A little bit of time means a lot, and all of it would be spent naked. Which is very, very nice, but it isn't winning me any bonus points with Mrs. Hughes at the moment."

"It's working for me," he murmurs huskily, disappointed when she pulls her shift over her nakedness.

Anna shoots him an amused look over her shoulder. "I want to check my dress over one more time before I put it on, make sure everything's fine. Come on, get up. We can have breakfast at home today. We never get to do that." She bustles out of the room, leaving him to huff loudly but acquiesce.

He makes his way downstairs twenty minutes later to find his wife cooking in her underthings. He doesn't know if he's more entertained or aroused by the sight. She stretches to reach for the salt.

It's definitely the latter.

"I didn't want to drop anything on my dress and have to launder it before I've even worn it once," she explains without turning around. "Sit down. The eggs are nearly ready."

"I'm not sure I'm hungry for eggs," he says, reaching to pour himself a cup of freshly brewed tea.

"That tact isn't going to work, John Bates," is her reply. "It's the eggs or nothing. And I mean nothing."

He chooses the eggs.

Anna is a whirlwind of activity afterwards, cleaning up the kitchen with more enthusiastic vigour than it warrants. When she's done, she brightly tells him that she's going to get dressed and that he should just make sure everything is tidy. He does so dutifully, and soon he is standing in the hall clad in his coat and hat, waiting for her to join him.

When she does, she takes his breath away.

The dress is beautiful. Slightly patterned, tucked in all the right places, a couple of centimetres shorter than her last one. But that isn't what captures his attention the most.

It's the neckline.

Or lack thereof.

Like the housemaid dresses of old, Anna's dress is buttoned right at the base of her throat, covering the inches of skin he has had the luxury of tracing his eyes over before. The top is held together by two buttons.

Ordinarily, it is not something that John would have given a second thought to. But, as his eyes travel lower, he is caught in a trance by the sliver of pale, creamy skin he sees peeping out from between the two sides of the dress. Shaped like a slim oval, running down for several centimetres, it is the only glimpse he is afforded of the skin that he is now used to having on show.

And it is driving him wild.

"Well?" Anna prompts. "What do you think?"

He tries to speak, clears his throat, starts again. "I think you look incredible."

She beams at him. "Honestly?"

"Honestly," he reassures her. Christ, incredible is an understatement.

"I'm glad. Let's hope Mrs. Hughes approves too."

"I'm sure she will." Though John is quite sure the housekeeper won't appreciate it in the same way.

"Let's go then," says Anna eagerly. "I can't wait for her to see it so she'll be satisfied that order is restored."

John nods mutely. He doesn't quite trust his voice. Mind buzzing, he follows her out of the door.

* * *

Mrs. Hughes is just coming out of her sitting room when they duck in through the back door.

"You're early this morning," she says cheerfully. "What happened?"

It was what hadn't happened, John thinks mournfully as he watches Anna shrug out of her coat with grace. Oblivious, she says, "Oh, we just fancied an early start, Mrs. Hughes."

"My, is that a new dress?" asks the housekeeper, her eyes sweeping over Anna's form.

"It is," she confirms. "What do you think?"

"It's lovely, dear. But I had every faith that it would be—once you stopped being so tired, of course." The way that her eyes twinkle indicates that she knows exactly what has prevented it from being completed earlier. "And now that everything's back up to scratch again, I'm sure Mr. Carson will be pleased. Are you coming for breakfast?"

"We've had breakfast too, but we'll come through for a cup of tea in a moment."

"Very well. Good morning, Mr. Bates."

"Good morning, Mrs. Hughes," he echoes with a tight smile.

The housekeeper leaves them alone. Anna makes to follow, but his hand snakes out and catches her wrist, tugging her closer. She giggles, raising her eyebrow.

"What is it?" she asks.

John's eyes drift lower, to the thin strip of white flesh that he can make out between the reams of black. When he looks back up, her forehead is wrinkled in confusion.

"Nothing," he manages huskily. "I just want to give you a kiss before I lose the opportunity until the evening."

Anna's approval comes with her bright grin, and she leans up on her tiptoes to catch his mouth. He slips his hand to the back of her neck, keeping her in place and deepening the kiss. It's a risky game—anyone could come upon them unexpected—but he finds that this morning he simply can't resist. Anna hums in the back of her throat, but she does not protest.

A crash from the kitchen makes them spring apart. He is pleased to see the red blush spilling into his wife's cheeks, and she touches the back of her neck self-consciously, in the spot where his hand had rested mere seconds before.

"What was that for?" she murmurs.

"Does a husband need a reason to kiss his very beautiful wife?"

"No, I suppose not," she concedes, and her smile lights up his world. "Anyway, we'd better go through before people start to wonder where we are."

"I suppose you're right," he agrees, but even as her back is turned, he can't get the image of that sliver of skin out of his mind.

* * *

It only gets worse as the hours progress.

John finds that he cannot concentrate on his tasks of the day. The dullness of brushing a shoe or mending a shirt often leads his mind to wander, and today it can only wander in one direction. Several times he catches himself thinking about what it would be like to slip those buttons open, and it takes several minutes to temper his reaction. He is very glad that he is working alone.

But mealtimes are the worst.

Since Thomas became under butler, John has been pushed out of his usual seat at Anna's side during the main meals of the day. He misses it bitterly, for they would hold hands beneath the line of the table, and share quiet, intimate conversations while the rest of the table exploded into political debates or disagreements about the family. Nowadays he has to content himself with waiting until they have a spare moment before they can properly catch up with each other's day, though he can still content himself with her lovely face.

He is still transfixed by her, but for other reasons entirely.

It had taken a long time for Anna to start to laugh and smile again in the aftermath of what she had suffered at that bastard's hands. All too easily her sunny disposition had been ravaged by storm clouds, her laughter sobs, her smiles frowns, grimacing at every accidental brush against her. He has counted every smile since then, her personal triumph over the darkness, and it is like a salve on his soul to see her so happy.

Tonight, Mr. Molesley woefully regales them with tales of his half-day, where one little disaster after another had struck. Many of the servants laugh affectionately, including Miss Baxter, though John only notices this out of the corner of his eye, consumed with watching Anna. Her face is alive with joy as she laughs, her whole body heaving with the effort.

The heaving of her chest causes her skin to shift upwards, and he imagines that he can almost see the hollow between her breasts, though of course this is mere fantasy. Even so, the pictures are vivid. If only they were home. He would take her upstairs, slip those buttons open, run his hand under the hem of her dress—

"Mr. Bates, are you all right?"

Miss Baxter's quiet voice beside him shakes him out of his stupor, and he realises with mortification that he has been staring at—ogling—his wife's chest for an inappropriate amount of time.

"I'm fine," he stammers. "Just fine."

He does not look Anna's way for the rest of the meal.

* * *

It is a relief to finally be released for the night, and an even greater one when Anna pulls her coat closed around the dress that has preoccupied him all day.

"Are you all right?" she asks curiously, slipping her hand into his as they walk along.

"Of course," he reassures her. "What makes you say that?"

"Nothing much…just, well, you've been a bit odd all day."

"In what way?"

"I don't know…distracted?" She furrows her brow.

She truly has no idea, he thinks warmly, and with more than a hint of desire. "I suppose I have been a bit distracted."

"But why?"

"Not here. I'll fill you in when we get home."

She nods uncertainly, and he squeezes her hand. The rest of the journey home is made in relative silence, though it is a comfortable one. When they get home he unlocks the door and they shed their outer layers in the darkness.

"Do you want a cup of tea before we head up?" she asks.

"No, just bed tonight, I think."

She leads him upstairs, fussing with the oil lamp when they reach the bedroom. John discards his collar and tie while she does so, sinking onto the edge of the bed. He pats his good knee.

"Come here," he says.

She settles her weight over him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Slight concern mists her blue eyes.

"I'm all right," he reassures her. "But you're right to assume that I've been distracted."

"Tell me what's wrong."

"I thought you might have guessed by now."

She shakes her head. "Should I have?"

He leans up and presses his mouth to hers, his tongue slipping easily between her parted lips. She tightens her hold on him, kissing him back. It's slow and sensual, and when it comes to a natural end he buries his head in the crook of her shoulder.

"All day," he breathes against her neck, "all day I have been distracted by this very lovely dress."

She squirms in his arms, a little breathy giggle escaping. He's pleased by the way that she trembles, the way that her voice isn't quite steady. "I don't understand. There's nothing salacious about it. Otherwise I'm sure Mr. Carson would have a heart attack."

"Oh, but there is," he whispers, beginning to pepper kisses around her neck, lingering on the pulse that he feels pumping more erratically beneath his lips. "Something salacious that only your husband would notice."

"And what's that?" she whimpers, tilting her head to the side to grant him more access. He sucks and bites gently at her skin, wishing that he could make a mark. Her low moan of pure contentment and the way that her hips push into him are more than enough encouragement, but he reins himself in. Downton would be outraged.

Instead he turns his attention to answering her question, running his hand up her body.

"This," he whispers. "This right here."

He slips his index finger into the gap just above the hollow of her breasts and begins to run it softly up and down her skin. He feels the goosebumps on her flesh, pimpling in her pleasure. Her breathing has accelerated.

"It's a sliver of sunlight on a dark day," he mutters, still teasing her. "Perfection. And shall I tell you what I want to do to you?"

"What?" she whimpers, raking her own fingers through his hair.

He does not answer her in words. Without stopping his ministrations to her neck, he moves his thumb and forefinger up to the irritating little buttons that have goaded him all day, wriggling them loose from their loops.

And, like the sunlight filtering through the clouds, her creamy skin is open to his touch once more. It is a beautiful, beautiful sight. Pulling away slightly, he parts the dress as far as he can without ripping the delicate material, holding her gaze all the while. The desperate longing in her eyes is enough to make him smile. All day she has unwittingly had the upper hand, but no longer. This is all his.

He lowers his mouth to the patch of skin that has taunted him for so many long hours. Anna's head ricochets back, and she sinks into his lap. He's aching within the confines of his trousers, and the added pressure makes him grunt, but he does not stop.

Her nice new dress is soon left in a sorry state on the floor. Her undergarments follow shortly behind. Naked, she writhes and moans beneath every deft touch, and when she has found her pleasure not once but twice, he finally can't ignore his own desires any longer. Their joining is frantic and swift, and afterwards, when Anna lays utterly sated in his arms, John thinks that despite the problems this new fashion is going to herald, the rewards will ultimately be worth every agonising minute.


End file.
